


The Knife

by therealvalkyrie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Knife Violence, Mentions of Prostitution, age gap, ish, reader experiences food insecurity, reader experiences homelessness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealvalkyrie/pseuds/therealvalkyrie
Summary: When you make an incorrect judgment call about who to mug in an alley, instead of running you through with your own knife, Levi takes you under his wing.
Relationships: Levi Ackerman/Reader
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

“Take it off. Slowly.”

The man’s voice is freezing cold, tendrils of it slipping down your spine like winter rain.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Normally, you press a knife to an unsuspecting victim’s throat in a dark alleyway and they trip over themselves in their haste to empty their pockets for you. But this man hasn’t so much as flinched, his hands still casually at his sides and posture relaxed.

That’s how you know you’ve fucked up - only someone who is utterly certain they can take you down acts like this.

Still, you hesitate to obey. When you move the knife, you may be dead meat, and you want to buy as much time as possible. You’re behind the man, one hand gripping the back of his neck while the other wraps around to press the knife to the soft skin of his jugular. Theoretically, you’re in a position of power.

You swallow thickly and grit your teeth behind the man, a frustrated and angry sound bubbling its way out of your throat.

“Take the knife away, brat, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

_ Fuck. _

He was supposed to be an easy target: unassuming in stature, expensive coat, walking alone late at night. You should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Your mind works furiously at a way out of your predicament, but after nothing comes to mind you almost stamp your foot in frustration. Another long moment, during which you can almost feel him waiting patiently for you to cave, then you move the trembling knife away from him.

It’s almost embarrassing, the speed at which he has you pinned against the alley wall. His body is pressed harshly against yours and his strong fingers are crushing your wrists to the wall next to your head. He is remarkably strong for his size and a quiet power radiates from his cold gaze. In the dim streetlight, you can make out a jagged scar that slices across his face and completely through one eye, leaving it white and unseeing. The other is a deep grey, and you feel like it’s staring directly into your soul.

As he keeps you pinned, you feel shame and embarrassment and frustration mixing in your chest, finally bursting out in an angry throat sound. To your utter dismay, tears begin welling in your eyes. But you refuse to blink, returning his icy glare with a fiery one of your own. This isn’t the first time you’ve been bested, but it is the first time your stomach has been empty for three straight days. You needed this man, his expensive watch and fat wallet, to get you through the next weeks before you planned to skip town. You needed it, and you got desperate, and you fucked up. Badly.

His hand flexes painfully around your left wrist and you finally drop the knife. It clatters to the cement, and he lets the sound echo to its death before speaking.

“What’s your name, brat?”

You suck in a breath, then spit, “Alex.”

Never give your real name: one of the first lessons you learned about being on your own in this city.

“ _ Tch.  _ Don’t lie. What’s your real name?”

_ How did he know? _

His face is inches away from yours, his hot breath fanning over your face. It smells pleasant, though, minty as though he brushed his teeth not one minute ago. This detail throws you for a proverbial loop, and so you find yourself breaking the rule.

You look down, and give your real name in a whisper. He repeats it, louder, and you close your eyes, mouth twisting into a pained frown.

His hand leaves your right wrist, which drops to your side, and grips your jaw harshly, turning your face back towards his.

“Look at me, brat.”

You crack your eyes open, now fearful, as his fingers dig into your cheeks.

“Why did you do it?”

You swallow your fear down, then force out through cracked lips, “I’m hungry.”

At this, he drops his hand from your face and laughs incredulously. “Hungry? Is that all.” It seems as though he’s talking to himself, and he looks at you slightly more gently. Like he can relate.

“Well,” he pushes off you and takes a couple steps back, “you didn’t seem like the assassinating type. You need money for food, then?”

You stay against the wall, regarding him warily with your chin tucked submissively and your eyes raised. You’ve lost the fight - he’s in charge right now whether you like it or not.

When you don’t answer, he sighs and squats down to pick up the knife. It twirls expertly in his delicate fingers, and your suspicions are confirmed: this man could kill you easily at any moment. He looks mildly surprised, in the downturn of his lips and the raise of an eyebrow.

“This is a nice weapon. Well balanced. Stolen?” He looks up at you.

You shake your head truthfully.

“Not stolen,” he hums to himself. “Interesting.”

Then, he’s straightening up and tucking it into his belt.

“Hey--” you start, then cut yourself off. There’s nothing you can do if he wants to take it.

But he looks back at you curiously. “What? Got sentimental value, has it?”

A twitch of your lips confirms his assumption, and he hums again thoughtfully.

“Tell you what. You can have it back after dinner.

“Dinner?” you croak out, shocked.

“You were hungry, weren’t you?”

You confirm with a tiny nod and glance at the ground, and he turns towards the street.

“Come along, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What can I get for you folks tonight?” The waitress stands poised by your booth, pen expectantly to paper and a practiced customer service smile plastered onto her face.

The man speaks first, not looking up from his phone. “Black tea, if you have it.”

Both you and the waitress tense a little at his rudeness, but her tone doesn’t convey it in the slightest. “Of course. And you, miss?”

Her attentive gaze turned to you makes your hands shake a bit, so you drop them to your lap. You try to meet her eyes, and briefly succeed, before blinking away and fumbling over your words. “Um, may I please get... a uh... um, a ch-cheeseburger with a side of fries, please?” The last phrase is rushed, breathless and questioning as you brave another look her way. 

Her gaze is kind on you as she nods in affirmation. “We have regular fries, home fries, curly, or waffle.”

_ What the fuck is a waffle fry? _ you think. 

“J-just regular, please.”

“Sure thing. And,” she leans down and lowers her voice conspiratorially, though the man can hear her clear as day anyway, “just so you know, shakes are half off tonight. We have vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry.”

You can’t remember the last time you had a milkshake. It comes out a little bit more confident, when you request, “Chocolate would be great?”

“Sure thing, honey!” She straightens up again, smiling kindly down at you, then reaches to pluck the plastic-covered menus off the table and tuck them under her arm. “That’ll be right out.”

“Thank you,” you breathe. 

The man only grunts. When she’s all the way across the dingey 24-hour diner, he tucks his phone back into a pocket.

“So,” he starts, leaning back and resting an arm along the back of the booth. It raises his suit jacket up and you can see a gun in its holster strapped to his side. You carefully peel your eyes away to meet his through your eyelashes. “Where’ve you been staying?”

“Around,” is your noncommittal answer. 

It takes a full minute of him staring you down for your resolve to crack.

“The bar on 39th.”

His good eye widens barely.

You pride yourself on being able to read people pretty well. Even before it was a necessary survival skill, you could always tell when your mom was in one of her moods or when a teacher could be gently lead away from starting an assessment. This man gives the air of being hard to read, with his steely eyes and set mouth. And it’s true you misjudged him earlier. But it’s also true that right now, you can read him like a fucking book. 

The twitch of his eye tells you he knows exactly what happens in the backrooms of the bar on 39th. The gun tells you he probably knows who exactly owns the bar. The clench of his jaw says he doesn’t like it. 

“You don’t look like a prostitute.”

You jut your chin out defensively. “I’m not. Anymore.”

“What, he kick ya out for bein’ too skinny?”

“Too stubborn, more like. Wouldn’t let ‘em hit me.” His eye flashes. Was that...  _ pride? _ Your cheeks grow warm. “He still lets me sleep on the couch, though.”

He lets out an unimpressed snort. “And he doesn’t even feed you?”

Your eyebrows furrow and you shake your head.  _ Why should he? _

“Fuckin’ degenerate scumbag.”

You gasp in fear and risk a glance towards the door as if the words will summon their object like magic. “Don’t  _ say _ that,” you hiss with wide eyes.

“Why? He can’t come here.” He’s so nonchalant that you can’t help but believe him. But then, that would mean...

You hadn’t been able to keep track of the twists and turns it had taken to get to the diner from the restaurant. It had been all you could do to keep up with him— despite his short legs, he could probably go to the Olympics for speed walking. But you’d figured you’d stayed within your normal comfort zone; no one who could walk so casually through where you ambushed him could feasibly expect to survive going to the other side of the city.

He must read the frantic logic in your wide eyes, but he only lets out one huff that could be generously interpreted as a laugh just as the waitress arrives with your food. 

“Your tea,” she sets down a surprisingly nice China teacup in front of the man, “and your burger and shake, sweetheart.” Your mouth waters at the smell of the food as it passes under your nose. You haven’t eaten in 2 days and you haven’t had a hot meal in at least several weeks. Not since you’d stopped working for him.

You wait until she’s disappeared into the kitchen to start devouring your food, picking up the burger in both hands and taking a huge bite. 

The man gives you a look over the rim of his teacup. He’s holding it overhand so that the steam billows off his palm and tendrils of it creep along his skin.

“Slow down, you’ll choke,” he instructs, watching you chew.

It’s a few moments before you’re able to swallow and answer him, not bothering to put down the burger. 

“I haven’t eaten in two days, let me have this,” you say, more brazen than anything you’ve said to him yet. But you feel a little more powerful now that you have food in your reach, now that the end of your interaction with this creepy man is within sight. 

He only leans forward, putting down his teacup in its saucer, and reaches out to take your basket of fries and milkshake. 

“Hey—“

“I’m holding these hostage until you slow down. It’s not good for you to eat so fast.”

You glower, hunch over your plate, and take another defiantly huge bite. Although you do chew noticeably slower. It makes you a little queasy that he so easily can take control of you, though that might also be the grease.

“What’s your name?” you ask between bites. 

“Levi.”

“Just Levi?”

He pauses, thinking, scrutinizing you for a moment. “Just Levi.”

When you finish your burger, he slides the milkshake and fries back across the table to you and watches with the barest hint of amusement as you squirt a generous dose of ketchup onto your plate.

“You can stay with me, for now,” he says when his tea is finished. “I have the space and I’m barely home, anyway.”

You freeze, mouth around the thick straw of your milkshake, eyes wide. Every fiber of your being is screaming  _ trap, trap, trap _ at the offer, telling you to take the free meal and run far away.

But he hasn’t tried anything on you this whole time, despite maybe (if your hunch is correct) being the third most powerful criminal in the city. And he  _ does _ still have your knife...


End file.
